


The Serpent Under’t

by mautadite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, Political Alliances, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 00:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3269747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Make what allies you can</i>, Uncle Doran had said. </p><p>Nymeria looks at Margaery, and considers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Serpent Under’t

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the ASOIAF kink meme (and finished just in time to kick off Femslash February! :D). Prompt: _In King’s Landing, two dangerous women come together for revenge--and lots of sex._ Post ADWD, pre anything else, as I’ve not read beyond that. Enjoy.
> 
> Title from that one Scottish play.

Two bitches with a juicy bone; this was how her eldest sister Obara had described the two queens in the capital.

Nymeria, freshly arrived, considers.

Cersei Lannister is a quick enough study; cunning to be sure, but full of hatred and petty cruelty even after her walk and her chastisement, striking down and sideways more than she strikes up. She guards Tommen’s time and activities as closely as she is able to, won’t let Myrcella out of her sight, regards every newcomer like the black plague come again. 

The Tyrell girl, on the other hand, is somehow too much to be believed. She is too sweet, too pretty; so very concerned for the honour of her cousins, so lately besmirched by vicious calumny; so worried for her little husband, from whom she remains separated. Nymeria’s instincts say that the larger part of her sentiments is genuine, and yet.

And yet she resists. The first queen was a quick study, but this one she wants to dissect and examine, peeling back all her little layers.

*

_“Kneel, snake. You stand before your queen.”_

_The words come from one of the bolder members of Margaery’s entourage, standing near the entrance of the Maidenvault. The little queen herself regards Nymeria with an air of sweet, distant politeness, but there is curiosity there, as well._

_“I think not.” Nymeria fingers the outline of one of her daggers against her hip, and she is already moving on. “I do enjoy kneeling before pretty girls, but not quite for the reasons you might think.”_

_There are all the titters and scandalised gasps that she might expect, but when Nym glances back, the queen is silent, looking after her with a tilted smile._

*

King’s Landing smells. The Red Keep does as well, though it is not the offal and mire that slurs through the streets. The castle is cloaked in perfumes and secrets, the like of which Nymeria has seldom seen. The lion queen’s silent pining over her brother makes Nymeria think of her own twins and their sunny yellow hair, with none of the artifice of gold. She misses them already, in this maze of intrigue.

But she had spoken true to her uncle; she quite likes snakes, and this nest of vipers is ripe for the milking.

The small council is much depleted upon her arrival; the Lord Regent and the Grand Maester both murdered only days before. The Tyrells think it was Cersei. Cersei suspects them in turn, and sees the Imp in every shadow. Mace Tyrell quickly installs himself as Lord Regent, and sends for his son Garlan to act as Hand in his stead. With the master of coin in Braavos, Lord Redwyne on Dragonstone, and the Kingslayer gallivanting somewhere in the Riverlands, it is a tiny council of three that Nym attaches herself to.

It grates, no doubt, to have a woman in their midst; a Dornish one at that, a bastard and the daughter of the Red Viper. Lord Tyrell especially grows red in the face when he sees her. But they are none of them daft enough to not realise that Dorne will make a terrible enemy in these times. They swallow their protests, their resentment simmers, and Nymeria begins to observe.

*

_“Nymeria, was it? After your ancestor the Rhoynar queen?”_

_She meets her in the gardens. The queen is fond of taking little walks; it is one of the only forms of leisure that she is currently allowed. Nymeria has seen her often, arm in arm with one of her cousins and a chaperone trailing behind them. There is no chaperone now. Margaery has either given them the slip, or Lord Tarly has seen fit to dismiss them._

_“Curious about me, are you?” Nymeria asks, leaning back on a bench._

_“Perhaps.”_

_“Should I pretend to be curious about you?”_

_No pretence is needed, not really, and the little rose seems to know that. She spreads her palms. “Why, surely there is nothing about me that could incite curiousness,” she says with such artless sweetness in her voice that it is almost believable. “But if you would know something, please ask, my lady.”_

_“You would abandon your own inquiry so easily?” Nym asks, eyeing her with amusement. How much had the waif bothered to learn of Nymeria of the Rhoynar, she wonders. Perhaps she had made a study of old queens, as Nym now studies the current ones._

_“Oh no,” Margaery says, fingers laced beneath her chin. “Not quite so easily as that.”_

*

Across the city on the other hill, Tyene observes as well. Nymeria visits often, and they share whispers.

“The sparrows are ever pressing to have their cries heard; I am surprised it has not yet come to open rebellion. The matter of the trial was postponed yet again.”

“The fat flower will not be pleased. He is eager to have his daughter absolved, especially since Cersei is already cleared.”

“Then he should be eager to treat with the High Septon,” Tyene drawls. They share a smirk; that shan’t be happening any time soon. Mace Tyrell is eager to do little other than consolidate his power and ensure the safety of his family. The Red Keep, far from being the safest place in the city, has been home to more murders than anyone wearing a crown, no matter how temporary, could be comfortable with.

*

_“This is the third time that you’ve sought me out. Am I meant to be flattered?”_

_“Third, my lady Nymeria? I had put the first crossing of our paths down to fate, or you.”_

_There is no denying that Margaery looks very much at ease in the throne room, the light from the high windows enveloping her like mist. The last council meeting is lately ended, and they are alone together in the high vaulted room. Well, near enough alone; Margaery’s guards remain at the entrance, not seeking to come closer when their charge slips into the seat next to Nym’s._

_“To me? Now you are flattering yourself.”_

_Their last meeting had yielded more than Nymeria had expected. She is no great fan of bandying witty words for sport, but the Tyrell girl had kept her there for almost an hour, speaking of everything and nothing in particular, making a game out of peeling back each other’s layers. It had gone on until the queen’s Tarly guards had appeared, and she’d gone back with them with many apologies for having lost herself in the maze-like garden._

_Nym could leave now, but she doesn’t. Margaery doesn’t deny having sought her out; she is dressed and coiffed far too carefully for anything else to be true, and she is frank about her own curiosity. Nymeria leans back. Perhaps today she can peel away another layer._

*

After the first week, Nymeria and Tyene have a list. Robert Strong is at the top of it.

Nym lets her sister take care of the matter, after she has seen the beast in action. They both agree that it should be done quickly. They neither of them like the stink of unfinished business, and that the knight somehow walks with Gregor Clegane’s body is without doubt. This is one aspect of vengeance that they cannot deny themselves.

Dear Uncle Doran might not be pleased, but he could not have foreseen this. In any case, the Lannisters broke their word; in some way or another, the Mountain That Rides still walks the earth.

It takes Tyene a bit longer than expected, but after three days, she reports success.

“Whatever it is, it should expire by morning,” she says, reclining against her down pillows, her sweet face marred by a frown. Nym sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed. “The poison mimics greyscale, so be prepared for a bit of a panic in the keep.”

“Panic I can deal with. In any event, if I’m right, Strong’s creator will want to keep it quiet. Many men suspected the giant for what it was.”

If Nym had her way, Strong’s creator would be dispatched next, in a way that would make Tyene’s methods seem child’s play, but she resigns herself to caution. Their list is not so long. If the golden twins can wait, Qyburn can too for a while yet.

*

_“And here you are again.”_

_Margaery shows off those sweet dimples of hers, and presumes to drop herself right onto Nymeria’s bed with her basket of sewing. Nym sits on the windowsill, tending to her weapons with whetstone and oil._

_“I’ve had a raven from my brother, Willas. He thinks it is good for me to spend time with you, be seen with you, and dispense with the feud between our families. Lord Tarly does not object.”_

_“And me? I presume you’re going to ask my opinion on the matter now.”_

_“I did not think that you would object either.” She plays with her skirts, straightening and smoothing the sky blue material until it falls perfectly onto the sheets and around her legs. “Was I wrong?”_

_Nym tilts her head towards the queen. “I could find worse ways to spend my time. Although, I have never feuded with you or your family, little queen. If I had, you would have known it.”_

_Margaery’s laugh tinkles like a bell. Nym is reminded of a Dothraki warrior she once met, with bells all ringing in his long braid, little pealing symbols of his strength and power. It is somewhat the same, with the queen. When she laughs like that it seems to make her bold._

_“Your father…” Margaery pauses, and Nymeria casts a sharp eye on her. “We never met, but Willas tells me he was a good man.”_

_“He was a great man,” Nymeria corrects. Margaery nods._

_“Allow me to say belatedly… I am truly sorry for your loss.”_

_“Say me no sorries,” Nym advises. But she keeps her place at the window, and does not order the girl out. Soon, the rustle of cloth and needle joins the scrape of her whetstone; staccato, rhythmic, soft._

*

Nymeria has heard of the Tyrells. She doesn’t like to place too much stock in what she’s _heard_ , much preferring the stone surety of _witnessing_ , but there is always something to be learnt from the stories. They are an opportunistic lot whose primary concerns are family and influence. During the Rebellion, they fought for their rightful kings, right up until the moment it became clear that it would be detrimental to continue to do so.

Doran does not think of them as the true enemy, but surely would not trust them as far as he could flick a speck of dust. With his ever worsening gout, that is not far at all.

Still. _Make what allies you can_ , he’d said. 

Nymeria looks at Margaery, and considers.

*

_“Your trial should be soon, I hear.”_

_“I pray daily to the Seven for it. The sooner it comes, the sooner I can shake off these heinous accusations and take my rightful place at my king’s side.”_

_“How fares the little lion?” It is Nymeria’s turn to lounge on Margaery’s bed; an apple in hand and a foot swinging off the side. She could be said to be chaperoning, which makes Nym laugh; she’s rid more girls of their maidenheads than there are septas in the order. But it seems to suit Lord Tarly; he apparently thinks it a bracing sort of punishment for Margaery to spend time in Nym’s company._

_“Better, now that his sister is back. Better still, when he has me again to counteract whatever poison his mother must be spewing in his ear.”_

_This is new; the little queen is usually quite neutral about Cersei. “Are you not worried about the judgement of the Faith?”_

_“What has an innocent to worry or fear? Gods willing, they will see through all this libel. My cousins are sweet girls all, barely children, it’s horrible that they should be put through this. And I have never known a man; that is fact.”_

_She says it proudly, with a little haughty flush high in her cheeks. Noting the very specific phrasing, Nym takes a bite of her fruit. It crunches loudly._

_“Is that so,” she says, wiping up a bit of juice. Margaery blushes prettily, but keeps her shoulders straight._

_“Indeed, it is.”_

*

The matter of Strong’s bizarre death does not rest long, not when there are so many other matters at hand.

Ironmen continue to threaten the Reach. The Knight of Flowers continues to labour through life, supposedly on his last legs on Dragonstone. Lord Swyft reports that the Iron Bank of Braavos is proving even less persuadable than he thought. The Lord Commander has not been heard from in weeks, and the outlaw situation in the Riverlands is becoming dire. The Council quibbles over the candidates for the next Grand Maester, and wonders who the Conclave shall appoint. And so on, and so on.

Their uncle’s informant at court has yet to approach them, which is not altogether unexpected. Nymeria is very interested to find out that the old master of whisperers, Lord Varys, had disappeared not long after the Imp had murdered his sire. She consults Tyene, and they agree that it would be counterproductive to go looking.

“If he knew enough to send word of Trystane’s planned mishap,” Tyene says, arm linked with Nymeria’s as they stroll through the godswood, “he certainly knows that we are here now, acting for our uncle.”

“I mislike it all,” Nymeria confesses. “What good can come of one who calls himself an ally, yet refuses to show his face, or say what he knows?”

“If only I could have a little chat with him,” Tyene says, wistfully. “I’m sure I could get him to whisper to me.”

“The man is a eunuch,” says Nym, amused.

“Oh, you know I have my other ways, dear sister.”

*

_“How did you learn to wield such things?”_

_Margaery reaches a hand out, and touches the holster at Nymeria’s hip. Nym allows the brief inspection, and then brushes the hand away calmly, not smiling though she would like to. Casual touches from the queen have been growing in frequency lately._

_“As with most important things in my life, my father taught me,” she says, curving her palm around the pommel of the dagger that Margaery had touched._

_“From childhood?”_

_“Of course. It is a pity that not all fathers see their daughters thus educated.”_

_Margaery giggles. “Not all of us are as gifted as you are, Lady Nymeria! Loras tried to teach me when we were but children, but I was hopeless and very bored with it, and soon gave up the venture.”_

_“A pity,” Nym remarks._

_“Perhaps. If any of my brothers could have taught me the way of the dagger and the sword, it would have been Loras. He… is not the most patient of people, but he was always patient with me. He has always been my favourite brother.”_

_Nymeria watches as the girl’s tawny eyes well up with wetness. She takes a moment to wonder if it is artifice, before she retrieves a piece of silk from her dress and hands it to the queen anyway. She draws the line, however, at doling out platitudes about the likelihood of her brother’s survival. By all accounts, the boy will not outlast his injuries._

_Margaery dabs at her tears, and for a second, Nym thinks that if she were a different woman, she would regret her earlier thought. There is real sorrow in the queen’s eyes._

_“You have my thanks, my lady,” she sniffs. Nym nods, and when the scrap of silk is returned to her, she tucks it back into the folds of her dress._

*

She visits the place where her father died, though only once. She allows herself that.

The blood has all been washed away. There had been a lot of it; that is the one thing that never varies in all the tellings she’s heard of it, and Nym has asked questions of Ellaria, Daemon, and every other Dornishman whom she trusts who’d been present. Not knowing would have been far more painful than squirming away from the truth. Oberyn had always taught her, taught them all, not to shy away from facing the unpleasant.

If there’d been one man in all the Seven Kingdoms who could have brought down the Mountain singlehandedly, it would have been her father. And he’d done it, only at the gravest price.

“I hope that it was worth it,” she says, kneeling amidst the courtyard stones. “I hope that you are at rest now, with Elia.”

Oberyn had never been a peaceful man, but in death, he could afford that luxury. For the rest, for vengeance and for justice, that was why he had had daughters.

*

_“Did you not know your mother, growing up?” Margaery sounds curious, as if the idea is alien to her, as well it must be. Nymeria shrugs._

_“I spent my first years with her, but I barely remember those. She keeps in touch, but knows that I am happy in Dorne.”_

_“Did you not miss her?”_

_“Not particularly. I had my sisters, and I’d have missed them more if I’d been with her.”_

_“I always wanted a sister, when I was younger,” says the queen, with a touch of nostalgia. “I had my brothers and cousins, of course, and I love them with all my heart, but it is not the same.”_

_“Do not think of asking me to play the sibling to you,” Nym warns in a drawl. Margaery laughs gaily._

_“I would not dream of it.”_

*

“What do you think of the matter of Margaery’s innocence?” Nymeria asks her sister. They are walking through the godswood once more. It is an intriguing place to her. The holy woods of the children of the forest had always been sparse in Dorne, and whatever Andals had come to the land had cut them down where they stood.

“I do not think of it at all,” Tyene replies. “I don’t think it matters much, in the grand scheme of things.”

“I suppose not,” Nymeria allows. “But it does not add up. The bulk of the case against her rests on the accusation of the old Grand Maester, Pycelle. He claimed she had had him make moon tea for her, but I cannot believe a girl as shrewd as Margaery would go to a man who was known for being Cersei’s catspaw for aid, if she needed it. Honestly, what girl doesn’t know the key ingredients, even if she knows not how to brew the tea herself?”

“These northern girls are different,” Tyene reminds her. Grasping Nymeria’s hand, she draws them to a stop, sinking onto a bench in front of an oak. Her cloak is very tight around her; it is still early winter, but at night the air is fearsomely cold. “Has Margaery spoken to you of this? I notice that you’ve been spending a fair bit of time with her.”

“Now, now, sister, you know I am only being the dutiful chaperone,” Nym intones drolly, and Tyene giggles. “No, she has not. I cannot say that we speak of anything of consequence. Although… she has mentioned that she is eager for her trial to take place.”

“Hmm.”

Nymeria sits next to her. “What does that look mean?”

“Nothing.” Tyene is wearing one of those mischievous smiles of hers. “I was only thinking that you might miss Jeyne and Jennelyn more than you’d let on.”

Nym scoffs.

“Tyene, please. I keep a dagger hidden between my thighs, but I do not think with it.”

“Oh, don’t be offended, my sweet. It might only help things in the long run, if you were to fuck her. Though it might come to blows between her and your little Lannister maid,” Tyene teases. 

Nym shakes her head, pinches her lightly. The Lannister servant had not been planned, but Lystra is a sweet, guileless girl, and had fallen into Nym’s arms after the first wink. It passes the time. The poor thing had been surprised to find that there was a spot between her legs that could give her so much pleasure. Sometimes Nym contents herself with just watching the girl as she touches herself over and over again.

She doesn’t use her for many things; gods only knew what Cersei would do to Lystra if she found her out. But it certainly is useful, to have an ear in Maegor’s Holdfast.

“Margaery’s father is not half so wise as she is, and I’ve spoken little with the brother, but I have been thinking of the possible merits of getting into bed with them,” Nym concedes, at last. She studies her sister’s face as Tyene considers it.

“It _would_ be the last thing the Lannisters expect, what with the so-called feud, and all that.” She shrugs daintily, and clasps Nym’s hands between her own, rubbing them gently. “We will be the dutiful nieces, see what Uncle Doran has to say. But if you do slip into a bed of roses, my love, wear gloves. You do know how they like to go on about their thorns.”

*

_“Thrice married, twice widowed. Do you not consider yourself unlucky?”_

_“Not at all. If I were unlucky, I would be in the ground with them.”_

_This answer pleases Nym so much that she laughs out loud. The queen blushes prettily across the table from her._

_“That is not to say that I do not regret their deaths,” she adds, picking at their light lunch. “And I pray that I shall never have to bury another. But men are for marrying. When I must marry them, I do.”_

_“Only for marrying?” Nym asks idly, popping a grape into her mouth._

_“If they have other uses, I have not yet been fortunate enough to experience them,” Margaery says gently, like a reminder. Nymeria hums, and selects another fruit._

*

“I may not be of this city, my lord, but I daresay that I have spent more time among the smallfolk than all of you combined. Add another tax, and the people will mutiny.”

Nym says it as demurely as she is capable of doing; that is to say, not very demurely at all, and Randyll Tarly’s eyes go even more flint-like.

“The coin must come from somewhere. Lord Swyft is having no luck with the Iron Bank, and from what he says the Pentoshi are leading him on a merry little chase.”

“We could place heavier taxes on the nobles,” Garlan Tyrell suggests. 

“No,” his father vetoes immediately. “That is an area where we must tread very carefully. Losing more support now would be…”

“And yet the gold must be found,” Nymeria says. “Connington and his band still hold Griffin’s Roost and a host of other castles in the Stormlands, and I do not think their siege on Storm’s End is as light a thing as you might think it, my lords. If the castle falls, it will take morale, lives, and support with it.”

She sits back in her high chair, only half listening as the men begin to debate this point anew. Their uncle had not spoken to them at length of this Aegon, but she is willing to bet that his gouty fingers are in the pot somehow. If the child is no imposter, then he is her cousin, Elia’s son and Doran’s nephew. It would also create a line to Daenerys, the queen in the east, and it is a short road from there to see where the prince’s goals lie.

To see Elia’s child on the throne… Oberyn would have wanted it, she thinks.

But for now, she keeps her ear to the ground as the high lords squabble. She listens.

*

_“You have something caught in your hair, just…”_

_In the warmth of her own chambers, Nymeria contemplates the little queen as she leans across the bench, and plucks something imaginary out of Nymeria’s hair. Lystra had brushed it until it shone not an hour ago; there is nothing caught in it, of course._

_“Thank you,” Nym says, sipping her wine._

_Margaery nods, and returns to her sewing. She is embroidering a neat bouquet of roses onto a handkerchief. Nymeria has seen her at it before; she must have thousands of the things by now. It seems to be the exercise of choice for women in punishment. The needles clink together repeatedly, like a fall of sharp jewels. Idly, Nym wonders if anyone has ever bothered to question the sagacity of giving deadly weapons to supposedly chastened girls._

_“Flowers again. Very much on the nose, don’t you think?” Nymeria drawls. Margaery chuckles, not looking up from her work. At first, Nym thinks that she does not intend to reply, but then the soft tones come._

_“That is a very pretty bracelet, Lady Nymeria.”_

_Nymeria glances down at her wrist, and then laughs out loud. When she looks up again, Margaery mirrors her look with a quiet grin. Smirking, Nym runs the tip of her tongue over her teeth._

_“You were not honest with me, little queen. You told me that you did not know the way of the dagger.” Her fingers trace the trinket at her wrist; two snakes intertwined in a dance._

_“Oh no, my lady, you misunderstood.” Margaery keeps to her work, but she also keeps that sweet smile. “I only said that I had not been taught by my brothers.”_

*

At long last, the date for Margaery’s trial is fixed, and comes to pass. After the queen and all her cousins are declared innocent, Mace Tyrell hosts a feast in his daughter’s honour, and only Garlan is able to counsel him to restraint. Nym watches and smirks as Cersei clasps Margaery’s hands and congratulates her on her victory, and then stands back with badly concealed loathing as the king pelts himself joyfully into his wife’s arms. 

Tyene materialises at her side, chaste and lovely, all in white. 

“So nice, to see the happy couple back together,” she murmurs.

“Indeed. I think Cersei might be about to cry from joy.”

“Still, the queen’s honour must be preserved; heavens forfend that any more accusations like this should be thrown against her in the future.”

“She is still to be chaperoned nightly by septas, and cut off from her cousins?” Nym guesses. Tyene nods.

“And as it would be inappropriate for her to spend more time in the company of the septas that she might have charmed during her imprisonment or her probation, there have been some new arrangements made…”

Nym knows what that mischievous grin must mean, and she wants to laugh. 

“Truly?”

“Truly. You may thank me however you like.”

Chuckling, Nymeria kisses her sister’s hand briefly.

“I will be sure to tell Cousin Arianne how sweetly you behaved in King’s Landing. I’m sure she’ll be able to think up an appropriate gift.”

*

_A week seems too soon, and yet it is only a week later that Nym finds herself with an invitation and directions into the heart of the Maidenvault, on a path that will ensure that she is unseen and unheard. There are no guards or maids to stop her along the way. When she steps into the spacious chamber, Tyene blows her a kiss before disappearing into an adjoining room._

_Margaery lies on the large bed. She wears a high-necked nightgown, as pearly white as the moon, and her hair cascades in brown ringlets around her shoulders. A thin film of purity seems to glow on her very skin, and she looks every inch the innocent flower._

_Nym smiles, and starts shrugging out of her clothes._

_“So soon after you’ve been cleared and your guard has been lifted? You play a dangerous game, little queen.”_

_Margaery laughs lightly. “A dangerous game, for a dangerous woman,” she says with a nod of acknowledgement._

_“Oh, I am not as dangerous as all that,” she says. Bare-breasted, she rests a knee on the foot of the bed, and waits for the queen to open the game, move the first piece. It takes her a moment; she makes no secret of the fact that she is eyeing Nymeria’s chest._

_“I have a proposition for you,” she says carefully. “Of a way that we might benefit each other.”_

_Nym considers that. “Your father?”_

_“He is sweet, and I love him dearly, but no, he knows nothing of this.”_

_The grandmother, then. Nym has heard of the old woman, and suspects the Queen of Thorns has been told about her._

_“I’ll hear you out, see if I like what you have to say.” She knees her way up the bed decisively now. Nothing to ferret out a lie like love. “But that is obviously not the only proposition you have for me.”_

_Margaery’s breathing goes slow and shallow, and she doesn’t move a muscle as Nym grips the hem of her nightgown, and carries it smoothly up her legs, up her thighs. They open for her, and Nymeria spreads them wider, moving into the space created. Observing the queen carefully, she takes two fingers and presses them between her curls, letting them rest against the softness of her entrance._

_“Do you want me to fuck you?”_

_Margaery shudders, and her hips shift. A delicate hand encircles Nym’s wrist._

_“What I want is no matter. It would be best if you didn’t.” Her cheeks are suffused with red, and there is at least no mimicking that. “I really haven’t done that before.”_

_Nym is almost charmed. “What have you done, then?”_

_“Fingers, here.” Margery takes Nymeria’s hand and moves it up to her little nub. “A thigh between my thighs, to rub against.” Her other hand cups Nymeria by the neck, pulling her down. “Mouths.”_

_She kisses sweetly too, leaning up against Nymeria earnestly so that she can feel the hardness of her nipples. By the time they pull away, hers are stiff too._

_“Pleasure first, then,” she says, thumbing Margaery’s lips, “and then business. And I shan’t fuck you like that, but I’m afraid that I shall make you beg me to.”_

_Margaery’s flush crawls down to her chest, where her nipples stand pink and pointed. Nym’s lips hurry to chase it there, and then lower._

*

When Nym enters the throne room a week later, Margaery is the only one present, sitting at the head of the table. Nymeria smiles pleasantly at her, before taking a seat a few chairs down.

The men arrive shortly; greetings are shared and banded about. Cersei too had been able to worm her way back on; how, Nymeria isn’t sure, but it makes no matter now. Garlan makes some quip about fairness and equality between the sexes, and they all laugh.

“Now, my lords, my ladies,” says Margaery when the polite preamble has been dispensed with. “Shall we begin?”

Nymeria leans back comfortably in her chair, and tips her head to the queen of Westeros.

“We shall.”

*

  
_To beguile the time,_   
_Look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye,_   
_Your hand, your tongue. Look like th’ innocent flower,_   
_But be the serpent under ‘t._

_Macbeth.1.5.64-67_


End file.
